The Case of the Matched-Up Misfits
by WildMeiLing
Summary: A young Perry Mason, just starting out, navigating the interview process. (I wasn't kidding when I said I love a How They Met story.)


_Here is a ridiculously fluffy story for you to read with characters I don't own. Thank you so much for stopping by!_

* * *

Perry Mason sighed and resisted the urge to tug at the knot in his tie. It was just one more thing he was trying _not_ to do.

He was trying _not_ to speculate as to why he had been called back after his first interview, yet left to wait so long in the outer office.

He was trying _not_ to let the sound of the receptionist's nail file grate on his already frayed nerves.

He was trying _not_ to make a pass at the woman sitting a few chairs down from him.

It wasn't that he was a wolf in a fine wool suit. It was more that she seemed...deep. He loved watching people, and he loved a good mystery. He could see that she was a deliciously complex puzzle definitely worth pondering. And she was certainly worth watching.

He peeked at her out of the corner of his eye. She didn't look like a prospective client; and although, unlike Mason, she radiated an unperturbed calm, there was something about her that told him she was also waiting for an interview. Lord, but she was beautiful. Maybe a little young for him, but she seemed mature beyond her years.

Possibly too mature for him.

He stretched out his long legs and rolled his neck from side to side, pretending that was the only reason his head turned toward her.

She was watching him. One raised eyebrow told him she had caught him sizing her up. The hint of a smile at the corner of her lips told him he was forgiven. He grinned as a way to confess everything.

"You look like a lawyer," she said.

"I am."

"And they make you sit out here?"

"Only when I've been disrupting the class."

She laughed. He wondered what else he could say to elicit that gorgeous sound from her again.

"How often is that?"

"Let's just say this is my chair."

"Really?"

He looked over his shoulder. "I think they were talking about putting a nameplate on the wall…"

"And what would it say?"

He turned toward her again. "How's that?"

She bit a smile. "What's your name?"

"Ah." He cleared his throat. "Mason. Perry Mason. You?"

"Street," she said solemnly. "Della Street."

"Why do I get the feeling you're mocking me?"

Her hazel eyes widened innocently. "I'm sure I couldn't say."

He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. Then he glanced over at the receptionist to make sure she was as oblivious as ever. "I had an interview here last week, and they called me back."

"That must be a good sign." Her brow furrowed and she started to say something else, but stopped herself and gave him a little smile instead. "Don't you think?"

"I think my credentials are fine, but I don't have that many of them yet. And I wonder whether I would fit in."

"You think you'll spend too much time out in the hallway?"

He laughed. "Something like that."

They lapsed into silence, listening to the receptionist field calls with a bored voice and the sound of typewriters clacking furiously behind closed doors.

"They need a new secretary," she said.

He took in the outfit that was tailored perfectly to her slender frame, and the strong, capable hands that had begun fidgeting with the clasp of her satchel. He stood up and pulled his chair from the wall, placed it directly in front of hers.

"Ms. Street, is it?" he asked, extending his hand to her.

Her eyes sparkled as she shook his hand. "Yes, that's right."

"I see you've brought your credentials."

"I have." She opened the case and produced a leather binder.

He accepted it and made a show of perusing the crisp pages, precisely placed and expertly typed. "You have a good deal of experience for one so young. I can't imagine you to be more than twenty-"

She leaned forward and closed the binder with a dazzling smile. "No need to concern yourself with my personal data."

"Pardon me. I'm new at this. But even I can see you would be an asset to this firm. Are you willing to work evenings?"

"I tend to work until my tasks are finished."

"What about weekends?"

"If I am needed, I can be here."

"And how do you feel about rules, Ms. Street?"

"Rules, Mr. Mason?"

"Yes. Rules. When it comes to fighting for our clients, how far are you willing to go?"

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I am a firm believer in rules to maintain order and fairness," she said carefully.

"But what if we had to...bend the rules in the interest of justice?"

Della Street narrowed her eyes, clearly trying to figure out where he was going with this. "Was this one of the questions in _your_ interview, Mr. Mason?"

"Not in so many words, but yes, I did have one like it."

"What was your answer?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure there's a reason I'm sitting in this chair rather than picking out wallpaper for my new office."

"What exactly _would_ you do for a client, Mr. Mason?"

"Whatever it took."

"So in your opinion, rules are…?"

"Suggestions."

"Mm."

"Do you like jazz, Ms. Street?"

"Relevance, Counselor?"

He grinned. "I didn't see in your resume that you'd worked for a law office before."

"I've been doing some homework."

"I'll bet you never sat out in the hallway in school, did you?"

"I was too busy trying to graduate."

"I suppose it takes all kinds."

"Doesn't it just?"

"Anyway, jazz. Often, it's mistaken for noise, for an abandonment of all the rules in favor of a musical free-for-all. But really, an accomplished jazz musician knows the rules very well, inside and out. He knows what his instrument can do and stretches it to the very limits. He charges ahead into uncharted territory -"

"Making some classical enthusiasts very nervous, no doubt."

"- but he never forgets the rules."

"Yet, if he only played by the rules -"

"- he would never create previously unplayed music."

"Do you like jazz then?"

Mason shrugged, doing his best to switch to a more nonchalant tone of voice. "It's alright."

Della Street wasn't fooled. "Alright, eh?"

"Mm-hmm." He thumbed through her portfolio one more time. "You know, you really do deserve a place here."

"Places like this love a rule follower."

He shook his head. "No. Well, yes. They do. But that's not why. You're very accomplished."

"Thank you."

The receptionist's voice wafted lazily over from her desk in the other corner of the room. "Mr. Mason, they're ready for you now. You remember the way to the conference room?"

"I do," he replied, his eyes on Della as he handed back her paperwork. "Good luck to you," he said.

"And to you," she replied.

"Thanks," he grinned. "I have a feeling I'm going to need it. Say, maybe they'll hire me and assign me the new secretary."

"Maybe. They probably like to match the rule followers with the, well, jazz enthusiasts. At any rate, I appreciated the company. Out here in the 'hallway.'"

"Save this seat for me," he quipped, moving it back to its place against the wall.

She gave a little salute. "Will do, chief."

-0-

She didn't. Save his seat, that is. She wasn't in the outer office when he left. He paused at the door and listened to the incessant sound of the typewriters, and wondered if one of them was being used to conduct a proficiency test for an interview. Then he left, closed the door behind him, and didn't look back.

-0-

It was a coincidence that he ended up in her neighborhood. Maybe not entirely a coincidence. It was possible he had snuck a peek at her address when he was skimming through her resume. But he really did have reason to be there.

He happened to be driving through when he noticed a newspaper stand. And as luck would have it, he needed a newspaper. So he stopped to get one.

It was a nice neighborhood, and a nice news stand. So he stopped again the next day. And every day after at various times for the next week and a half.

Finally, he discovered that she bought her newspaper at about 8:50 in the morning.

"Fancy meeting you here," he declared.

"Yes, what a surprise."

He hoped she meant, _What a_ _ **wonderful**_ _surprise, I'm_ _ **so glad**_ _to see you_.

At least, she didn't look like she was going to make a run for it. Then again, maybe she just didn't want to spill the coffee she held in her other hand.

"What news, chief?" she asked.

He unfolded the paper he'd tucked under his arm. "I haven't actually read it yet."

"I mean, about the job."

"Ah, that news." He cleared his throat. "I'm afraid they have someone else in mind."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"I have mixed feelings."

She nodded sympathetically. "Sure. A jazz musician being hired to play Beethoven."

"Exactly. What about you?"

She hesitated, then took a deep breath and looked him straight in the eye. "I also didn't make the cut."

"You're kidding!"

"Do I strike you as a kidder?"

"I'm not sure I know the answer to that question."

"What's next for you?"

"I think I'm going to open my own club."

"No one can tell you how to play in your own place."

"That's the idea. You?"

"I still have a job. I was just hoping for a better one. It'll do for now."

They were walking now, two usually energetic people strolling along a sidewalk crowded with people who had places to be.

"If you ever decide to take the road less traveled…"

She smiled. "You know how to get in touch with me."

"I do?"

"Obviously."

"Okay, so I do."

"I'm going that way."

"Unfortunately, I am not."

She tucked her newspaper under her arm and shifted her coffee to the same side in order to offer her hand to Mason. "Good luck to you."

"You keep saying that," he said as he shook her hand. "But so far, it hasn't worked."

"This time I mean it." She gave him a reassuring smile. "I'm kidding. See? Sometimes I'm a kidder. But seriously, I think _not_ getting that job was the good luck."

He had held her hand far too long - long after the actual handshake - and reluctantly released it. "I think you might be right, Ms. Street."

He watched her step off the sidewalk, falling back into what he assumed was her naturally efficient stride.

He was on his way to see about renting office space. He was going to hang his own sign out on a door, build his own client base, fight for justice his own way. And he was going to need a secretary. Luckily, he was fairly certain he had just had a second interview with her. What he didn't know was which one of them had been conducting the interviews. He chuckled to himself, his step jaunty as he continued on.

-0-

"Mason?"

It had been years since he had seen Grant Parsons, but when he turned at the sound of his name, Perry Mason recognized him immediately.

"Mr. Parsons," he exclaimed. "You haven't changed a bit."

He was caught up in a vigorous handshake, punctuated by a genial clap on the shoulder. "Neither have you, young man!" He nodded his head, indicating the seat next to Mason. "Taken?"

"It will be. But it's yours for at least a drink. What'll you have?"

"I like the looks of your scotch, let's go with that."

The bartender was already pouring. Evidently, Grant Parsons was a regular here.

He held up his glass. "Here's to the best lawyer I never hired."

Mason grinned. "I'll drink to that."

"And it was the right thing to do. I've been following your career in the papers. And what a career!"

"We do what we can," Mason said, feigning modesty.

"That's for sure. So tell me, for whom am I keeping this seat warm?" he asked, wagging his eyebrows suggestively.

"My secretary."

"Della Street, your partner in crime? I see her name in the papers almost as often as yours. And, um, your pictures in the society pages. Lots of rumors…"

"Just rumors," Mason deflected easily. "I couldn't do what I do without her."

He took his cue and smoothly let the subject drop. "Then another toast: to the best secretary I never hired."

"That," he declared, "I will also drink to. A peculiar lapse in judgement on your part, but your loss is my gain."

Parsons shook his head. "No judgement error there. My office manager practically stood on her head to entice Ms. Street."

Mason, about to take a sip of his drink, lowered his glass. "How's that?"

"Shortest interview in the history of interviews. I remember it because Marissa came in right after you and I talked to tell me about it. She offered Ms. Street the job right away. Ms. Street said she'd like to think about it. Few weeks later, Marissa came charging in, brandishing a newspaper. There was her secretary with the lawyer I didn't hire. Didn't take you long to start making a splash, did it?"

"We couldn't help it," Mason insisted. "Trouble came looking for us. Still does, in fact."

"Marissa sulked for a month. To this day, whenever we need to hire a new girl, she sighs and reminisces about The One Who Got Away."

"Della told me she didn't get the job."

"Della didn't _take_ the job." He studied Mason carefully. "She pretty much followed you out the door of my law firm that day."

Mason stared into his glass, swirling the amber liquid. "Well, how about that," he murmured, more to himself or to his scotch than to his neighbor. "She never told me."

"Which is why I'm letting you pay for this drink. Seems to me, you owe me."

Mason gave him a lopsided grin and lifted his glass. "To the best boss I never had."

"You are welcome, young man. You are welcome." Parsons swallowed the rest of his drink, then stood up.

"Leaving so soon?"

"Just moving on to a table. Business meeting with some clients who have good taste and liberal expense accounts. Besides, I haven't forgotten that this seat is being saved for someone much prettier than I am."

"Thanks again, Mr. Parsons."

"For the rejection or the secretary?"

For the rejection - and therefore, the opportunity to find his own way. And for the secretary - his best friend, his soulmate, the woman, not behind the man, but right beside him. The woman who had had faith in him since the very beginning. _Before_ the beginning. She was a saint, and he was one lucky devil.

"Both," he said simply. "For both."

 _The End_


End file.
